Sacrilege
by MlleBree
Summary: She would do anything for her angel, anything at all, including washing away the stains of sin. Inspired by numerous Catcorsair works, in style and content.


**A/N:** Noncon. Somnophilia. Drugging. This is HEAVILY inspired by pretty much every one of Catcorsair's works, particularly Filth and Like Pulling Teeth but it's all great. If you enjoy this please check out her work, I'm presenting the Walmart version. You can find her under my "favorite authors" tab. Enjoy!

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The first time it happened, Erik turned away. He wasn't entirely sure why he did, it only seemed the decent thing to do. He could hear the breathy sounds she made on the other side of the mirror. If he listened particularly hard he could almost hear the slick sound of her fingers moving against herself.

The second time, he watched with rapt attention. He watched her hands move against her milky skin, watched her eyelids flutter and her fingers disappear into the slit of her underthings, stared at the mysterious teasing of hair that the shift of her bloomers exposed to him. It took him a long moment to realize that he was fondling himself to the sight. The need for relief outweighed any shame he may have mustered in the moment.

The third time, he realized there could be no accident about it. The little slip of a girl was fully aware that the darkened dressing room was where her angel visited. The third time, he began to sing to her, softly, throwing his voice in just the same way he did for their lessons.

She tensed, gasped, her plump thighs pressed together and she yanked her trembling fingers away.

"Continue, child," he said, wetting his suddenly dry lips and using every effort to keep his voice steady as he wrapped his cold fingers around his own member in his loosened trousers. "Such beauty is a gift."

And, after a long moment of hesitation, the tease of a girl did just that, spreading her creamy thighs just for him, her perfect, pretty lips forming a breathy "Angel" and it was all that he needed to confirm his belief that it had been just for him.

He felt no shame as he devoured her image before him. There was no guilt when he imagined taking the place of her hand, wondered if that magical place hidden beneath the dark patch of hair and her palm would feel as perfect as he imagined.

Even the uncomfortable stickiness on the inside of his trousers didn't bother him. He held himself up, one palm pressed against the cold glass of the mirror. He watched the glass fog against his cool touch and the thought that she could simply look over and discover his entire ruse was more exciting than it was frightening.

The fourth time, he didn't dare to touch himself. It was simply too much. He had to know. Instead of himself, he fondled the glass bottle in his pocket, eyes trained on her, ignoring the nearly painful strain that he felt.

He had slipped four generous drops into her cup of tea when she had left the room for a moment, only a moment, after their voice lesson. When she came back and settled herself on the small loveseat before her cup, he knew that he only needed a bit more patience.

Emboldened in the knowledge that she was aware he had at least been present, he wrapped his fingers around the glass bottle in his pocket. "Lift your skirts." He instructed her just as easily as he did during their lessons; correct your posture, lift your skirts, it all relied on one thing alone; coming from her angel's voice.

She chewed on her fat pink bottom lip and shifted where she sat, her short fingers twisting in her plain blue skirt. "It's wrong," she protested eventually, sounding more confused than anything. "Is it not?"

"You swore yourself to music."

"I did, angel!" she cried, releasing her captured lip. "I have been faithful, I never meant-"

"Enough!" he boomed. "I have not come to listen to your sniveling! You have been faithful, child. So long as you can satisfy yourself you are committed to the music. It is good. Lift your skirts."

She shivered and lowered her eyes. It took a moment to rearrange her grip and then slowly, unbearably slowly, she lifted her shirts, gathering them in her gawkish thin arms, looking every bit the petulant child that he knew her to be.

He leaned against the damp brick wall, appraising her silently for a long moment, the uncomfortable way she stared down into the bunched material but still held herself open for him. The white bows at the top of her stockings were masterfully tied and for a long moment he wondered whether she had tied them herself or whether she had even a single maid to assist her in the task. It was a sudden thought that came without any conscience bidding; if she knew he was a man, if she knew what he looked like, she would have dropped her skirts and fled the room by now. He dragged his nails slowly along the brick of the wall.

"Remove your bloomers."

"Angel, I-"

"Do not argue, child. Suddenly so questioning. Do you wish for your angel to leave?"

"Please," she whispered, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. The lovely little thing's wide blue eyes glistened, glassy with her tears. "I'm sorry, I will not question - I will do whatever you ask of me, angel."

"Your angel is always with you," he said slowly. "Always. You cannot hide from him, child. Drop your skirts and drink your tea. Where was the weakness in your lesson?"

It was not so unusual. He often lent an ear to her silly problems and all of those complaints that made the little thing dissolve into tears. There was a certain fragility hidden behind the roughened exterior she attempted to convey - it was equally endearing and infuriating. Some days he found that he wanted nothing more than to wipe her tears away. Others he felt an urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her violently. Today he felt neither - instead he felt simple impatience as he tapped the pad of his finger against the damp wall and watched her lift the no longer steaming teacup to her plump pink lips.

The truth was, he had no idea what she spoke about. He fed her simple, noncommittal encouragements without actually deciphering any of the words she spoke. He was far too focused on the rim of her cup and the way the muscles in the throat moved as she swallowed the lukewarm liquid.

He failed to notice much of anything until she stopped speaking, her chin resting against her chest and her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. The teacup was nearly empty - it was just full enough that there was a wet stain dribbled from that space between her perfect breasts and straight to her lap.

"Christine?" he called, shifting on his feet behind the mirror.

There was only a moment of hesitation before his fingers caressed the hidden latch. The mirror made a popping sound and he snuck his fingers through the newly created gap, pushing it open slowly. It would've been quite a sight for her to behold, the way the flickering candle light danced against the mirror's face and refracted at odd angles as it moved on its hinges. The only sign of life in her was the steady, slow rise-and-fall of her bosom.

She moved not an inch and he crouched on the floor in front of her, taking the cup from between her dead fingers and setting it on the small table behind him. "Look at what a mess you've made, you naughty child," he huffed, his fingers tracing the air over the stain on her dress. "Unavoidable, I suppose... I would like to take you somewhere, Christine. Would you like to accompany me?"

Christine was silent. Her head hung heavily. He dared to trace his cold fingers against her neck, pushing her hair over her shoulder.

"You will not answer, but it does not matter," he said, tracing his hand back and using his thumb to lift her chin. "Of course you will. You would be happy to be anywhere with your angel, would you not?"

His thumb dropped just the slightest bit and tensed, forcing her slight nod.

The smile that spread across his thin lips was unavoidable, really. "Such a sweet girl," he murmured. "Worry not, Christine. I will carry you. You won't even soil those pretty little slippers."

She didn't fight him even a little bit as he moved her; her arms wrapped limply around his shoulders and there was no protest of modesty when he closed his hands around her slight waist. She was a good, compliant girl if not just a bit heavier than he had at first anticipated; she appeared so slight when he looked at her through the mirror and for a moment he cursed the lie that her sight told.

He would not exhaust himself on the journey. Her warm weight in his arms was pleasant and solid, the form of an illusion suddenly materializing. It was real. She was real.

"You haven't caught a fever, have you?" he muttered. He had to shift her weight in his arms on the threshold of the mirror, taking care not to catch her limp toes in the edge of the frame as he maneuvered it closed. The only trace of her to be found was an empty teacup; it was all for the best. He touched her cheek with his cold fingers and she was burning. "Such a good girl not to recoil. Perhaps some rest will be in order after tonight, darling. It wouldn't do well for you to catch ill."

There was no answer aside from her steady soft breath against his throat. It was a feeling he thought he could certainly get used to. He was so drunk on it that after a few moments, he hardly even felt her weight slowing him anymore. Every few steps he shifted her in his arms and aside from the echo of his own footsteps, all was pleasantly quiet and peaceful on the dark journey below.

The only regret he had was the fact that she couldn't truly experience his home. He wouldn't see the look of wonder in her eyes as she ran her fingertips against the stone he had carved so carefully himself, she wouldn't ask him to play a song on the impressive organ he had crafted by hand, she would have no question about the origins of the marvelous furniture in the bedroom he had slowly been preparing for her.

It was all for the best, he thought. Only three dresses hung in the wardrobe and he hadn't yet located the particular soap he sought for her; she would experience it all in a few months time, when she carried herself over the threshold on her own two feet.

He was gentle as he laid her upon the bed that would one day knowingly be hers, carefully lowering the back of her head to the overstuffed pillow.

"It is quite comfortable, isn't it?" he asked softly, pulling the end of one of her curls gently between the pads of his fingers. "It doesn't quite befit you - ah! but I am sure that you will be grateful. You appreciate beauty too, don't you Christine?"

Her plump lips were slightly parted and he ran his thumb gently against the lower one. He felt that familiar stirring in his loins, the ache he hadn't quite been able to fight off becoming sharp and hot.

"You would do anything your angel asked of you, would you not?" he asked softly, his palm finding her ankle under the bundle of her skirts. " So warm - perhaps you will forgive me this indiscretion, hm? I do love you so, Christine."

There was a dreamy sigh from between her lips as he traced his palm up her lower leg and his eyes flicked to her face, eyes still closed, pink lips still parted slightly. "Shh," he soothed her gently, fingers stretching and reaching selfishly, brushing against the soft inside of her knee. Up higher still, the pad of one finger tracing the perfect bow he had seen. "Your angel would not hurt you, sweet girl," he murmured, burying his masked face in the soft material of her skirt. "He is only impatient, love. Gentle, so gentle, yes? Such a precious gift, Christine."

His hand reached blindly, finding the slit that he had watched her fingers disappear into only a few days before. He nudged it open carefully, daring to trace the coarse hair that had so unfairly remained hidden from him.

"So warm, my love," he mumbled, glancing up at her face as he slipped his finger between the folds of her flesh. The sticky-slick lips clung to it, pulling against his skin as he slid it along her pink flesh. He wasn't sure what reaction he was waiting for. Her brows furrowed slightly and the corner of her mouth twitched. It was hardly even noticeable - the sort of look she made when she was slipping into a nightmare. It was a familiar look.

"It wouldn't do, would it?" he asked quietly, withdrawing his fingers from her slick warmth. "I will see you, darling, but it is nothing to be embarrassed of, is it? No. Natural and beautiful."

She was like a doll, dead in his arms as he pulled her to sit. Her head lulled, limp against his shoulder as he worked at the ties of her dress.

One day he would take her that way; to simply push her skirts up around her hips and rut her like a whore. He closed his eyes against the image.

Ah, but it wasn't what he wanted. He had enough of that.

She lay splayed across the bed like a virgin sacrifice to some beastly God, her knees slightly spread beneath the sheer material of her thin chemise.

Whore.

He shook the thought from his head, skirting her wide hips with his palms. Lovely. Loveliness and grace, beauty, such beauty and goodness.

There was a sort of poetry to the thought that he would be the one to defile her. Angel. There was no angel; there was only Christine, only Erik and the sinful burn and strain in his loins every time she opened her perfect, plump lips and submitted herself unknowingly to him again and again.

Such sweetness, such beauty, such - and ah! he paused. To be careful, careful with the delicate fabric covering her from his lecherous eyes. To tear, to rip, it was tempting, tempting - one day. The sweet girl deserved his patience.

He discarded the mask that trapped heat against his delicate skin and wiped his brow, looking down at the sweet creature that was powerless against him.

'She begged for you,' his mind supplied. 'Harlot, whore, fucking herself on her fingers. The tease, fucking herself, her little red cunt was weeping for you.'

His fingers were shaking; off with her chemise, only pausing a moment to admire the supple pear shape of her breasts, rose-bud nipples already standing pert and begging to be taken between his lips, suckled like a babe.

Slut.

No, no. Sweetness, he reminded himself as his fingers worked gently at the perfect little ribbons on her thighs. Perfection, beauty, patience-

Sex.

The smell of her was unmistakable, sour-sweet as he bent closer.

'Begging for you, only for you, her sweet fingers working, sinful and stained.'

Stained.

It was for her. Her angel, she would do anything for her angel, allow him to wash away his dirt-grime sin between her perfect, fat, milky thighs.

The whole of him trembled as he rolled each pristine white stocking down her legs, revealing her pale and untouched flesh.

She was a good girl.

No one had ever seen this part of her, hidden away chastely for him - for her angel.

His blood stained fingers skirted her skin, tracing the length of her short legs, over the knob of her knee, down to her delicate little toes.

Advances - such advances. Well, the slut of a girl had certainly made the first one! Spread out whorishly on the little couch where he had once bid her to dry her eyes.

It wasn't his fault!

The terrible thoughts that burned him with shame, that made him take his own swollen cock up in his hand until her name spilled from his lips just as his seed spilled sticky and hot over his knuckles.

Temptress, demon! Her siren's song had brought it all on herself.

She would simply have to bear it.

That was his thought as he yanked her bloomers down her legs and tossed them to the floor.

There was no time to admire the dark thatch of curls that hid her from him; he was hungry, impatient, and his selfish finger roughly led the search for the pearl that he knew lay hidden between the ocean of her warm, pink skin.

Her muscles jerked beneath the oppressive pressure of his palm and he knew that he had found what he sought from the breathless sound she emitted.

Even in sleep the whoreish child couldn't help but sing for him.

"Shush," he crooned gently. "Such a good, sweet girl, Christine. I wonder, is it an angel that you see behind those pretty eyelashes?"

He did wonder. He wondered if she would remember any of it as her head tilted to the side and she panted like a harlot, her brow furrowed in concentration.

If she did, he wondered what she would remember. Would it be an angel, singing his song into the swollen lips of her sloppy cunt?

"I will taste you now," he said softly. "But you do not mind, do you Christine? Of course... of course not."

He spread her thighs with his palms, slipping down between them. The smell of her, the heat of her, was intoxicating and when he wrapped his lips around the hardened little nub she gasped, her muscles jerking instinctively on each side of his ruined face.

How he wanted to hurt her, to shove his fingers deep into her little pink cunt - to feel the untouched walls of her cling to them and pull them deeper, deeper, deeper-

It wouldn't do.

Already her voice was rising, her song desperate and needy, her muscles pulsing, begging, begging for something to grasp on to, something to fill that empty space between her legs, that space that belonged to him, to him and him alone. She had married herself to the music. Well, he was the music!

No sweeter bride had ever existed.

There was no patience to be found when at last he wretched himself away from her. His cock sprung ready and begging when he pulled at the waist of his trousers.

His thumb smoothed the white pearl of fluid at the tip of it; once, twice he pumped into his own fist.

He lifted her knees with his hands, pulling them apart to offer himself the room he needed. And oh! The tease of a thing whined when he dared to run the head of it over the sensitive little nub that made her sing so delightfully for him.

The harlot! The temptress! Why, she knew exactly what she did! With one hard thrust he buried himself to the hilt in her weeping red cunt.

If he could bury himself deeper he would have; he felt no pity for the half-pained gasp of air that she let out at his intrusion.

"Whore, harlot!" he panted against her warm ear as he reached for heaven in her warmth. "Why, you begged! Angel!"

He touched her skin. He buried the noseless ruin of his face against her sweat-slick throat as he panted, as his hips rolled relentlessly against her of their own will.

The sound of it, the wet squelch as he forced his way inside of her and she opened to receive him, her muscles clung and pulled, slick and warm and perfect; such perfection that he had never found with anyone else. It was a music of its own.

He shuddered and gasped and pressed his face against her throat as he pumped his seed into her pure, untouched womb.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against her throat, pulling back to look at her sweet, sleeping face. "Christine," he whispered, pressing his lips to her warm temple. "Such a sweet girl."

There was a wet sort of sound when he detached himself from her and he looked down in curiosity. Blood stained her thighs, stained his limp cock, and the fluid that followed was nearly as pink as her cunt, milky and thick.

Two fingers coated themselves in the warm wetness and slid gently back inside of her. She was still warm, still dripping, and he curled his fingers inside of her until that sweet sigh emitted from between her parted lips again.

He wondered what it might be like to watch a woman stretch, her pink belly grow fat and round with his seed. Would she ever put it together?

The virgin Mary, vessel for her angel. The poor girl was aching, her brow furrowed as his fingers slid inside of her and he removed them gently, wiping them carefully on the inside of her already stained thigh.

When she woke a few hours later it would be on the very same couch, her face tilted toward the big, pretty mirror and grogginess clouding her head. She would take a sip of the ungodly cold tea on the table nearby and she would be too tired to wonder why she smelled of rosewater.


End file.
